


graves in the abstract

by feralphoenix



Series: a heart is no king's throne [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Benevolent Player, Gen, Nonverbal Frisk, Sharing a Body, Spoilers, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 22:06:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12757095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: Chara and Frisk find a stained apron and get meta about ghosts.





	graves in the abstract

**Author's Note:**

> _(Were they telling me to run_ – the ghosts a future self left behind)

Frisk picks up an old apron, covered in stains, on the second level of Hotland and looks it over for a while. They fold it under their arm and pull the gauzy tutu down off their hips, fumbling with their upgraded phone for a moment to stick it in one of the interdimensional boxes Alphys gave them. This done, they return their phone to their pocket and then clumsily put the apron on, tongue stuck out.

You’re very carefully not whining about how this is going to be a lot hotter than the tutu while running around in the land of magma and steam and humming power generators, because the extra DF _is_ going to help Frisk stay out of danger. But you’re cranky about the heat and about Mettaton’s continual shenanigans and your mixed feelings on Alphys, so your irritation still swells up when Frisk thinks at you, _This is a little big on me._

“Well, duh,” you reply to them. “Whoever it belonged to was probably a lot bigger than you, weren’t they?”

Their surprise washes over you, and it’s almost like literally being doused in cool water; the strong emotional response from them rinses your annoyance away, down the drain where you can’t get it back. (You were doing your best not to let it spill over to them, and you had what you think were pretty good reasons for being annoyed—it’s sort of rude.)

 _You mean this wasn’t yours?_ they ask.

You don’t have a face to scrunch up in response to the question, and Frisk is doing the direct piloting while you backseat drive right now—the usual setup—so you can’t even borrow theirs to do it either. You try to push that feeling at them anyway, though it’s hard to know if it’s successful. “Why would you think it’s mine?”

 _I guess because all the stuff I’ve been finding is made for humans and kid-sized,_ Frisk replies. _You’re a ghost and we’re the same age, so I thought…_

“Oh,” you say. “No. None of this stuff has been mine. But Undyne said that Asgore, that the king, has already collected six human souls, so… I mean, remember the kids’ shoes at Toriel’s house?”

 _Oh, right,_ Frisk says a little sadly, and they pull at the strings of the apron at their back. _But were you… y’know…_

“No,” you tell them. “My soul shattered when I died. All this is… new. They weren’t collecting human souls back when I lived here.”

Frisk’s curiosity stings you like nettles, but they don’t ask. _Is that… why you’re so impatient to keep moving all the time?_ they venture instead. _I remember you saying you wanted answers._

“Pretty much.” As much as you want to know, _need_ to know, you’re also a little scared to find out. You don’t really care that much about any other humans that went through here, but the change in the underground is so dramatic and you’re getting more and more sure deep down, in a way you can’t really put words to, that it’s your fault. “Basically hell is real after all, I guess, but not in some weird fiery torment way. Instead, when you die, you play an RPG of the world you left behind and watch some weird goofus bumbling through the wreckage of everything you ever fucked up.”

Frisk frowns and lifts one arm to wipe sweat off their face on their sleeve. The texture of the cloth is too much for you in the heat and the steam; you want a body so that you can shudder properly and lean away.

 _Is that really how you think of all this…?_ they say at last.

“Is this about the goofus part or the bumbling part?” you ask, tiredly.

 _No, comparing what’s going on now to hell,_ they press.

You sigh. “I don’t even _know,_ Frisk. I wasn’t really planning on coming back as a weird dybbuk, okay? I was under the impression that I was going to get to enjoy my existential quiet time after I kicked it, and I was kinda looking forward to that, if I can be honest.”

Frisk laughs a little, and their mind fondly turns your description of she’ol as _existential quiet time_ over and over like a river stone. _Are you sure that you’re a dybbuk and not an ibbur?_ they ask.

“Uhhhhh???” you manage. If you were able to blush you know you’d be _very red_ right now. “No, I—neither one of us really wanted me in your head, and ibbur is usually a thing that the possessee consents to, or where the possesser is at least unobtrusive. Besides, I don’t know if you could really call this possession. I don’t even have a _soul,_ Frisk, I’m not even a proper ghost. Just a memory. Just a shitty backseat driver to your grand adventure.”

 _But you have some sort of unfinished business, though, don’t you?_ Frisk says. _You have things you want to know and things you want to do._

Well. Maybe. But you don’t even know why you’re here at all. You messed up, you got Asriel killed, you couldn’t save anyone. The person who gives you instructions, the one who helps you help Frisk—you wondered a little if they have something to do with you being here, if they could show you why, tell you what you’re supposed to do now.

But the further Frisk manages to venture into this strange hostile version of the underground without having to take a life, the less you understand. Are you only here to get it rubbed in your face that the way you tried to solve things while you were alive hurt and inconvenienced others, when you’re beyond being able to change anything for the better?

You’re certainly not above consequences, but if that’s true—then your own facetious comparison to hell does feel pretty accurate.

 _That’s not true,_ Frisk thinks at you so suddenly and so fiercely that you gasp a little. _I know you’re here, and you’re helping me. You’ve helped me keep going, and you’ve helped me not hurt others. You helped me make friends with Papyrus and Undyne. I think my journey so far would’ve been a lot different without you here. So you ARE able to change things for the better, so there._

“That’s… pretty charitable,” you tell them. “I’ve been… pretty nasty to you before, Frisk. I’m not proud of it. It’d be understandable if you were mad at me, or held that against me. So why are you being so nice to me instead?”

 _They taught me at temple to be nice to ghosts,_ Frisk says, so primly that you laugh despite yourself. _Besides, I’ve been nasty to you too. It’s harder when we can’t get away from each other at all, but neither of us chose this. And you HAVE helped me, even though you don’t like humans at all._

“You know how Alphys said that when you’re watching someone on a screen you wind up cheering for them?” you say. Frisk nods. “Uh… I guess that goes for when you’re leading someone through the weird RPG experience called life, too.”

Frisk laughs. _That’s really cute, Chara._

“Oh, shut up,” you say without really meaning it.

Frisk just laughs again and walks back up to the fork in the path, some other unfortunate human’s apron slapping at their knees with every step.


End file.
